


The Widow and the Bastard

by LostBerryQueen



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: 1800s, Abuse, Child Abuse, Gen, Lord Asriel ist tot, Mein Lieblings Asriel ist das tot Asriel, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Orphanage, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27412222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostBerryQueen/pseuds/LostBerryQueen
Summary: 1800s Lyra's World. The inherent horribleness of the 1800s meets the inherent cruelty of Mrs. Coulter. This should probably not be read by human eyes. Aliens are welcome.
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the 2006 adaptation of Jane Eyre for this one.

The matron greeted Mrs. Coulter with a bow and led her inside. She had the docile appearance of someone who might have a butterfly, or a chicken for a daemon, but instead she had a black dog which bared its teeth at the golden monkey. The golden monkey snarled back. Mrs. Coulter ignored the daemons. 

Mrs. Coulter wore a nice black hat and blue dress, but not anything that would give away her wealth, at least not to an unpracticed eye. Someone familiar with those of her status might have been tipped off simply by the way she carried herself. 

The matron paused by the staircase. “The girls are waiting for you by their beds. I figured I should advise you on your choice before you see them. The first girl on each row is a saint, but every other one is a hellion. It’s a very simple organizational process.” 

Mrs. Coulter nodded, a small smile gracing her lips. She could appreciate the matron’s tactics, especially the unethical edge to them. 

A child dropped from the ceiling like a cat, and wrapped her arms around Mrs. Coulter’s waist. Before Mrs. Coulter could react, the girl pulled away and scampered up the stairs. 

“Lyra, I’ll tan your hide!” The matron yelled after her. Her face was flushed with anger. She gave Mrs. Coulter an apologetic smile. “That was one of the hellions. I’m so sorry about your dress.” 

Mrs. Coulter looked down to see soot staining her dress where the child’s hands had been. “Is she the only Lyra here?” 

“Yes, the one and only. Though I’m afraid we’ve had to consider renaming her Liar quite a few times. Her mother was such a sweetheart though so we didn’t. Insisted on the name Lyra, was the only thing she could give her really. I still remember her. Very pretty, and she was sobbing when she left her. But that child has the devil in her for sure, and the good woman is better off without her.” 

It might have been stupidity keeping the matron from seeing the resemblance, or perhaps her eyes had just begun to fail her. Or maybe it was the differences in demeanor, between the poor penniless twenty-three-year-old and the wealthy self-assured woman in her thirties. 

“That’s the one.” Mrs. Coulter said. 

“Excuse me, ma’am?” 

“I need a child with energy.” 

Mrs. Coulter watched from the carriage with some amusement as two women dragged the fighting child towards her. The alethiometer had said that her daughter was here, but if she had had any remaining doubts she lost them in the sheer Asriel of the girl’s will. 

The women shoved Lyra into the carriage successfully, but the girl’s daemon stayed outside of it. Lyra folded her arms and sat as far away from Mrs. Coulter as possible. The carriage started to move and the daemon was forced to fly after them as a magpie. 

Lyra stared stubbornly, but eventually the exhaustion got to be too much for her and her daemon started pecking at the glass. 

“Let him in,” the girl said quietly. 

Mrs. Coulter pretended not to hear, feigning absorption in her book. 

“Oh, please, let him in!” Lyra got on her knees and tugged at Mrs. Coulter’s dress. 

Mrs. Coulter looked down at her coldly. “Do you promise to behave?” 

The girl nodded. 

Mrs. Coulter opened the door just enough for the daemon to slip inside. Lyra attempted to jump out of the carriage, but Mrs. Coulter yanked her back roughly. Defeated, the daemon swooped inside and crashed into the floor. 

Lyra hugged him immediately and returned to her place as far away from Mrs. Coulter as she could be, holding the daemon to her chest tightly and glaring at her new caregiver ever so often. 

Lyra kept quiet as she followed Mrs. Coulter around the mansion, but Mrs. Coulter could see the wonder in her eyes. When Mrs. Coulter showed her her new room, Lyra jumped face first onto the gigantic bed enthusiastically, dirtying the fresh blankets. 

Mrs. Coulter laughed affectionately. 

Mrs. Coulter showed Lyra the closet full of dresses and told the girl to pick one, then she led the girl into the bathroom and helped her out of her filthy clothes. 

Lyra looked around the gleaming bathroom curiously, but when Mrs. Coulter gestured for her to get into the tub, she held her daemon close and shook her head. 

“Darling, you’re filthy! And I can’t have you tracking that around my house.” 

“Drown,” Lyra said quietly. 

“What was that? Speak up child!” 

“I’ll drown! It’s too big and I can’t swim.” 

“Darling you won’t drown.” Mrs. Coulter rose from her seat and took a step towards the child. 

The child took a step back. 

Mrs. Coulter moved so quickly that Lyra let go of her daemon with a frightened shriek and he hit the ground. Mrs. Coulter hoisted the screaming and struggling child into the tube where her fight drenched the both of them. 

The girl’s daemon flew in circles above their heads, cawing in protest. 

“See, you didn’t drown.” Mrs. Coulter said, holding the child firmly in place. “Though I might drown you, if you don’t learn to be better behaved.” 

The girl's eyes were red and Mrs. Coulter wiped the tears from her eyes with a small dry towel that the golden monkey handed her. 

The girl’s daemon perched on the edge of the tub as Mrs. Coulter washed her hair. The water was warm and soothing, and Mrs. Coulter’s hands were gentle. All the stress of her day built into a crash, and Lyra was soon lulled to sleep. 

Mrs. Coulter wrapped the girl in a towel and carried her towards the bed, surprised at how light she was. Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. In that moment Lyra looked just like she had when she was a baby. 

As Mrs. Coulter was lowering the girl down she woke and her eyes filled with panic. She struggled free, thankfully falling on the soft mattress instead of the floor. 

She scouted away from Mrs. Coulter and held her knees. 

“You’ve had a stressful day. Would you like to rest a bit before supper?” 

Lyra shook her head. 

Mrs. Coulter helped Lyra into the dress that she had picked out—a turquoise one made of a soft and comfortable material with a white collar. It was too big for her, and Mrs. Coulter made a mental note to get it altered. The sleeves went far past Lyra’s hands and Mrs. Coulter had to fold them back. The skirt was also too long and Lyra tripped over it a couple times. Mrs. Coulter realized that might help keep her from running off for now. 

“Hold onto the banister,” Mrs. Coulter instructed as they went downstairs for their meal, surprised when the girl obeyed. 

When she saw the table packed full of food, Lyra stood rooted to the spot. 

“Sit down,” Mrs. Coulter scolded. 

Lyra did, but she refused to eat anything. Later Mrs. Coulter would find stolen bread hidden around the girl’s room, and dispose of it. Mrs. Coulter didn’t see the child eat a single thing the first three days she stayed with her, so she must have been better at hiding food than the golden monkey was at finding it. 

Finally, Mrs. Coulter confronted the child about it. “Lyra, you have to eat at the table. If you hide food in your room it will attract rats.” 

“No,” Lyra said, voice quiet but stubborn. She glared at Mrs. Coulter. 

“Lyra you’re not leaving the table until you eat something.” 

“Make me.” 

Mrs. Coulter raised a brow at the challenge. 

She ended up needing the servants to tie Lyra to the chair, and weigh the chair down with stones. 

Finally, Lyra grabbed a small loaf of bread with both hands, and tore into it with her teeth like an animal, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“Good girl,” Mrs. Coulter said, watching her sternly until it was finished. 

She released Lyra from her bindings and the girl bolted. The next morning she was gone, and Mrs. Coulter searched the grounds with the servants, eventually finding her late in the afternoon in the barn, high up on one of the wooden planks like a cat. 

“Lyra, come down.” 

“No!” 

“Lyra, if you don’t behave better, I’ll send you right back to the orphanage.” 

“Send me back!” Lyra retorted. 

While Lyra had been distracted by the conversation, the golden monkey had climbed up after them. He snatched Pan and climbed back down. 

Girl and daemon screamed as the separation between them became too far. 

Lyra climbed down hastily, snatching Pan from the golden monkey and holding him tightly. Mrs. Coulter was shocked for a moment by her daughter briefly touching the golden monkey, and the golden monkey let go of Pan automatically when he felt it. 

“Why do you want me here anyway!” Lyra said angrily, tears glistening in her eyes. 

Mrs. Coulter bent at the waist and smiled, leaning towards the frightened child but still above her. “Because I’m your mother.” 

“You ain’t!” Lyra spat. 

Mrs. Coulter straightened. “I am.” 

“My mother died in an airship accident!” 

Mrs. Coulter laughed—a musical yet cruel sound. 

“Hmm, how interesting. And I wonder, how many of your other friends also had mothers who died in airship accidents?” 

Lyra’s expression changed then, as though she were realizing the logic of Mrs. Coulter’s words. “I didn’t have any friends,” Lyra said quietly. 

“What a surprise.” Mrs. Coulter said. 

Lyra glared. 

“Lyra, dear, I’m your mother and I want you here. So why don’t we start over, hmm? Tell me, what’s your daemon’s name?” 

“Pan,” Lyra said. 

“Pan?” 

“Yeah, like the pans they have in the kitchen. They hurt a lot if you get hit with one.” 

“Actually, it’s Pantalaimon. His name means ‘compassion for all.’ Not a dish. You see? Only your mother would know that.” 

Lyra looked uncertain. She and Pantalaimon exchanged a look. She took Mrs. Coulter's offered hand. 

“Mama?” Lyra said as they were walking through the blueberry patch. 

Mrs. Coulter stopped, shocked by the use of the title. “Yes, darling?” 

“Why’d you leave me there?” Lyra folded her arms across her chest and glared. “If you really is my Ma.” 

Mrs. Coulter resisted the urge to correct her daughter’s grammar. One thing at a time. She gently took Lyra’s face in her hand and watched as the girl’s frown relaxed into something vulnerable. “That is a long and exciting story,” Mrs. Coulter said in a hushed tone. “But I promise I wouldn’t have left you unless I had to. I’ll tell you all about it before bed if you behave today.” 

Lyra nodded. 

Mrs. Coulter got Lyra clean and changed into another one of her overly large dresses. The seamstress would be coming by today to take Lyra’s measurements, and Mrs. Coulter would have her current dresses fixed as well as a few fancier ones made. 

When the three women arrived, Lyra hid behind Mrs. Coulter, small fingers gripping her dress. 

Mrs. Coulter stroked Lyra’s hair soothingly. “Lyra, these nice ladies are just here to fix your dress. It’s much too big, see? Don’t be shy now darling. I just need you to stand on this stool for a little while.” 

Mrs. Coulter lifted Lyra easily—reminded again of how unnervingly light her daughter was. Lyra fidgeted on the stool and wrung her hands, looking at Mrs. Coulter with something like trust, or duty in her eyes. 

“Good girl,” Mrs. Coulter praised, running her thumbs over the girl’s small hands soothingly. 

When Lyra saw the first needle she screamed and jumped off the stool. Mrs. Coulter held the girl’s wrists tightly to keep her from fleeing. 

“Mama don’t let them! Don’t let them poke me!” 

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Coulter said. “As long as you stay still you won’t be harmed.” 

Lyra kicked the stool over. She tugged against Mrs. Coulter’s hold. Mrs. Coulter let go and Lyra fell to the floor, then she scrambled up and ran to her room, tripping a few times on the way before remembering to lift her overly long skirts. 

Mrs. Coulter turned to the women with a false smile. “Children, what can you do.” 

The women were attempting to conceal their shocked expressions. One of their dog daemons had been hit by the wayward stool and was whimpering. Mrs. Coulter sent them away, deciding she would have to have a little chat with Lyra before they got anywhere with this. 

Mrs. Coulter gathered together her patience before going to talk to her daughter, and had one of the servants prepare chocolatl with brandy. 

She found Lyra in bed with her shoes and her day dress still on. Mrs. Coulter took off Lyra’s shoes silently, then helped her into her nightdress. 

Mrs. Coulter handed her the mug of drugged chocolatl. 

“What is it?” Lyra asked. 

“Just try it. You’ll like it, I promise.” 

Pan, in ermine form, sniffed at the contents. He gave Lyra a nod and the girl took a drink. Lyra’s face lit up as she tasted it, and she drank it down quickly, making Mrs. Coulter laugh. 

“Slower, darling. You’ll make yourself sick.” 

Mrs. Coulter wiped Lyra’s messy face with a handkerchief. 

“More?” 

“I don’t think so, dear.” Mrs. Coulter’s voice became grave. “We need to talk.” 

Lyra fidgeted and looked down at the blankets. 

“Why?” 

Mrs. Coulter stroked Lyra’s cheek, tucking hair behind the girl’s ear. “It’s what daughters do. When something scares them, they tell their Mamas about it.” 

Lyra’s eyes flicked to hers, then quickly looked down at the blanket again. “I don’t like needles...and I...I don’t want to be poked.” Lyra huffed and then the tears released. 

“It doesn’t hurt that much darling...” Mrs. Coulter was confused. Lyra appeared to have a high pain tolerance. Why was she afraid of a stray needle? 

“No!” Lyra pulled the blankets up and hid her entire body beneath them. 

Mrs. Coulter exchanged a look with the golden monkey, and thought back to Lyra’s reaction to the bath. It had been a simple matter to force the child into the tub, and after the first time, Lyra was obedient, no longer afraid of drowning. But the reason behind her initial fear was perhaps more complicated. 

“Lyra,” Mrs. Coulter sang. “Oh, where has Lyra gone...” 

Mrs. Coulter jerked back the blanket suddenly and Lyra shrieked. She attacked Lyra’s stomach with tickles, and Lyra fell back on the bed, giggling, a beautiful sound that Mrs. Coulter realized with a stab of pain that she had never heard before. 

“Stop! Mama, stop!” 

Both Mrs. Coulter and Lyra’s eyes were misty when she finally let her daughter go. 

Mrs. Coulter slid into bed beside Lyra and Lyra rested her head in her mother’s lap. 

“Did someone hurt you Lyra?” Mrs. Coulter said, stroking her daughter's hair. 

Lyra nodded. 

“With a needle?” 

“Yes...” Lyra whispered. 

“Tell Mama what happened, darling.” 

The golden monkey began to gently stroke Pan, who was a quivering kitten with soft fur. Lyra tensed at first, and started to get up. Mrs. Coulter held her down gently, and Lyra eventually relaxed. 

“It was one of the older girls and she...at night...had a needle and almost poked my eye, but then she didn’t, and she poked me all over and she said, she said that it was like rich girls. When they get clothes, they get needles all over their body.” 

It took Mrs. Coulter a little while to sort out what Lyra had said. Then she laughed. “Lyra, the needles don’t go into your skin, they go into the fabric. Into the clothes.” 

Lyra sat up and shook her head. “That’s not what she said. And she’s one of the older girls. They know things.” 

Lyra’s eyes were wide and serious. 

“And what about your Mama?” Mrs. Coulter still struggled to use that word, but it was the word Lyra had chosen, and she hoped it would give her enough comfort to manipulate her with. “Do you think I don’t know things?” 

“Mamas lie,” Lyra said, looking down. “And they leave you, and they don’t come back. The older girls says that too.” 

Mrs. Coulter put an arm around Lyra, and Lyra collapsed into her gratefully. “Well, I’ll never leave you again, Lyra. I promise.” Mrs. Coulter pressed a kiss onto the girl’s forehead and felt her start to cry. 

Mrs. Coulter sighed. Taming Lyra would be a long road, but the first step was an established trust, and it seemed that they had that. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Coulter stood at the window, watching Lyra and Pan chase each other around the field, the brilliant sun lighting up her daughter and the white and yellow flowers. She felt Lord Asriel’s ghost appear behind her, but she didn’t turn. 

“She’s an untamable brat,” Lord Asriel said. 

Mrs. Coulter smiled. Her dead lover was right, of course. Lyra had finely adjusted to life at the mansion, or as well as a feral child could adjust. She was eating now, and that was the main thing, although she didn’t know how to use utensils. Instead she crammed food into her mouth with her hands, getting it all over her face. Mrs. Coulter knew she’d have to correct it eventually, but her daughter was so malnourished and thin. She just wanted to fix her frighteningly low weight first. She made sure to bring her lots of sweets between meals. 

Lyra spent most of the day running around the blueberry patch, scaring the poor workers. The exercise was good for the child, though Mrs. Coulter would eventually have to teach her some civilized skills. 

Lyra had even sat through having her dress fixed, which Mrs. Coulter was most proud. She had had to sit for a dress alteration herself, allowing Lyra to hold her hand and watch the entire time, so she could see that Mrs. Coulter was not poked by the needles even once. Then Mrs. Coulter had held Lyra’s hands for her own dress fitting, and showered her in hugs and kisses when it was over, and given her her favorite brandy chocolatl. 

“She has your will,” Mrs. Coulter told him. 

“Your mother wouldn’t let her within six feet of the house.” 

“Which is why it’s a good thing she’s dead. When you see her ghost, do tell her all about Lyra, please.” 

Lord Asriel’s ghost chuckled. “If I did that she would find a way here out of pure spite, and never stop haunting this house. Besides, I only torment the living.” 

Mrs. Coulter reached towards him, wanting to touch his face. She stopped herself just in time, knowing that if she did he would be sent back to the world of the dead immediately. 

“Oh, Asriel...” Mrs. Coulter collapsed on the bed, the weight of the responsibility she now had running around her home and the weight of the years of her lover’s absence suddenly hitting her. 

“I know, my very dearest. I wish I could be here too, fully.” Lord Asriel looked out the window grimly. “But you’re a good mother—though that girl is a brat—and only you would have the strength to put up with her.” 

“I just...” Mrs. Coulter wiped at the tears on her face. “I just wish things were different.” 

“Me too, my love, me too.” 

Mrs. Coulter and Lord Asriel both felt a longing desire for Stelmaria in that moment, who had disappeared long ago when Asriel died. 


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Coulter basked in the light of soft voices and polite, admiring glances—some of them even genuine. She was surrounded by fine company and completely in her element. 

Lyra of course, was not yet suitable to attend the party. She was being kept entertained in the barn by a nanny. Mrs. Coulter had considered postponing the event until Lyra was better trained, but that could take months, and the mansion was absolutely stunning in the spring, with its gardens in full bloom. 

A terrible noise cut through the tranquility, and a small dirty form ran through the field of ladies, causing them to “oh!” and pull their nice dresses away from it. 

Lyra’s little hand found the fine champagne pink of Mrs. Coulter’s dress and ruined it instantly. 

“Mamaaa!” Lyra wailed. 

The golden monkey’s hair stood on end and he snarled. Pan was an ermine, whimpering and crouching before him. 

The nanny was not far behind, dirt smeared across her face, and white hair coming lose from her bun in strands. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I tried to stop her.” 

Mrs. Coulter glared at the older woman, then did her best to school her features. Mrs. Coulter pried Lyra’s hand off of her, and handed her wrist to the nanny. “Take her upstairs.” 

Lyra screamed and fought the entire way, Pan becoming a crow to swoop down and peck at the poor woman. The woman was formidable, and determined not to let the child go again. 

Mrs. Coulter tried to keep her thoughts off of strangling the child as she bid her guest's farewell. It wouldn’t do to let show how affected she was. “A servant’s child,” she explained. “Not right in the head, I’m afraid, but her mother is so kind, I just couldn’t let her go.” Of course there was the issue of eventually introducing Lyra to society, but by the time she was done with her, she would be unrecognizable when that occurred. She was nearly certain no one would make the connection between the feral animal who interrupted the fine party, and her daughter—or heir, as she would be known. 

Lyra was still screaming and fighting the nanny when Mrs. Coulter came up to the girl’s room. The nanny had managed to hold her down on the floor, but she had cuts all over her face from where the child had scratched her. 

“Lyra stop it at once!” Mrs. Coulter said. 

The golden monkey lunged forward and pinned the wayward Pan to the floor. 

Lyra fell silent. 

“You may go,” Mrs. Coulter said to the nanny. 

“Are you sure, ma’am?” 

“Yes, and thank you,” Mrs. Coulter infused her face and voice with appreciation she did not feel. It wouldn’t do to lose the staff who could at least exert some control over the wild child. 

Lyra squirmed on the floor in pain as the golden monkey gripped Pan tightly. 

“Lyra, what is the meaning of this?” 

“My arm,” Lyra moaned. 

“What?” 

“My arm!” Lyra screamed. 

“Lyra, do not scream at me!” 

The golden monkey gave Pan’s ermine tail a rough and painful jerk as though he were trying to tear it off. 

Lyra dissolved into anguished sobs which soothed some of Mrs. Coulter’s anger. The golden monkey let Pan go and Mrs. Coulter bent over the child. 

“Shhh, Lyra.” She cooed. “Tell me what happened, in a nice voice.” 

Mrs. Coulter stroked the child’s cheek—carefully, like with an anxious cat who might bite at any moment. 

“I-I fell,” Lyra said finally, choking back sobs. “And my arm’s...on fire.” 

“It’s not on fire,” Mrs. Coulter said. Lyra held one arm to her stomach. Mrs. Coulter reached out and felt it and Lyra wailed. “It’s just broken, dear.” Her voice was sweet, but not without malice. 

“A doctor will be able to fix it, here.” Mrs. Coulter lifted Lyra up and carefully got her situated on her bed. Lyra was tense and still in her arms, and allowed Mrs. Coulter to pulled the blankets up and over her. 

“Stay here, darling, I’m just going to send for a doctor.” 

Lyra grabbed Mrs. Coulter’s wrist with her good hand. “No, don’t leave. Don’t leave me, Mama.” 

“Nonsense! I’ll be right back.” 

Lyra made to follow her and Mrs. Coulter gave her a fierce glare that could (and did) make grown men tremble. “Lyra, darling,” She said in her lightest, sweetest tone, “if you do not obey me, I will break your other arm. Stay put.” 

Lyra and Pan let out wounded sounds, but didn’t attempt to follow her again. 

Mrs. Coulter was too absorbed to hear—or perhaps to pay attention to, the dark chuckle coming from the corner of the room. 

Lyra’s eyes went wide and her mouth opened silently as the ghost moved towards her. 

“You know,” dead Lord Asriel said. “If you disturb your mother’s party like that again she might actually send you back.” 

Lyra wanted to scream for her mother, and she wasn’t sure whether it was the fear of a second broken arm or the fear of the ghost that kept all sound from her. 

Pan became a black kitten and all of his hair stood on end. He arched his back and hissed. 

The ghost laughed. “Do you think that’s what you’ll settle as, Lyra? A bit like me, though Stel was even fiercer at your age.” 

Lyra tilted her head. There was something familiar about the ghost, something almost comforting about him. “Who are you?” Lyra said, putting as much stubbornness and bravery into those words as she could. 

“That is the question, isn’t it? But perhaps it should be who I was. I was an explorer, a great man, but now I am crumbling. Little more than a memory.” 

There were approaching footsteps. 

“Shh,” Lord Asriel said, even though Lyra hadn’t been talking. “Your mother wouldn’t approve of me meeting you.” 

Lord Asriel stepped back and faded into the wall as the door opened. 

Lyra’s mouth was still hanging open as she met Mrs. Coulter’s eyes. Mrs. Coulter fixed her with a calculating stare, then came over to the bedside. 

“The doctor will be here in an hour.” 

Lyra said nothing, silently accepting the brandy chocolatl Mrs. Coulter poured into her mouth. 

The casting of Lyra’s arm was a long, and unpleasant affair. Mrs. Coulter’s anger built as the procedure carried on. The doctor had advised that she not be present, but Mrs. Coulter had insisted on staying in the room. 

When it was over and the doctor had gone, Mrs. Coulter scolded the child harshly, who was exhausted and quietly sobbing. 

“How could you be so careless! You could have broken your neck instead of your arm! A mother should not have to put up with such wild, unruly behavior. You scared the guests half to death, running around them like a dog, I should have you shot! If you ever, ever do something like this again I’m sending you right back to that orphanage!” 

“No...no...Mama, you promised you _wouldn’t._ You can’t.” 

“I can do whatever I please.” 

“But you _promised_.” 

“I promised my good little girl—but where is she? I don’t see her. All I see is a disobedient child who doesn’t deserve to live in a nice home.” 

“ _No_ ,” Lyra cried, her mother’s words more upsetting than her broken arm. 

“They told me you had the devil in you, that your mother would be better off without you. Well, were they right?” 

Lyra sobbed in heartbreak. 

Mrs. Coulter was satisfied that she had made some kind of impression on the child, and left her to think about her actions. When she returned a few hours later, mood much improved and carrying brandy chocolatl, Lyra was gone. Mrs. Coulter dropped the mug and brown liquid spilled all over the floor. 


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs. Coulter found Lyra in the forest by the stream, dozing under the damp leaves of a bush. It was still night, but the dogs had sniffed her out. 

Mrs. Coulter knelt beside her, running her hands over her damp cheeks and the dirty fabric of her dress. She felt cold. Pan was curled in a tight ball by her side, ferret-formed. 

Mrs. Coulter scooped them up, hoping to share warmth. Lyra groaned but her eyes stayed closed. Pan nuzzled into the fabric of her dress, his nose twitching as he sniffed, recognizing her scent. 

“Mama...” 

“Shh, darling. I have you. You’re safe.” 

The servants had a warm bath waiting—hotter than Mrs. Coulter would normally use for Lyra, but the girl had been out in the cold for hours. 

Mrs. Coulter set Lyra on her feet in the bathroom and Lyra rubbed at her eye. Then she became alert and aware of her surroundings and terror took over her small frame. 

“No, you can’t send me back, you can’t!” 

“Lyra, no one is going anywhere. You’re staying here.” Mrs. Coulter pulled her into a careful hug, being mindful of her cast and sling. 

Lyra melted into her arms and cried onto her shoulder. 

The bath was tedious, as Mrs. Coulter had to be very careful not to get the cast wet, and Lyra was tired and very much upset. She whined half-heartedly throughout the entire process. When it was finally over, Mrs. Coulter led Lyra to her own room. 

“You’re staying with me tonight. I won’t have you running off again.” 

Mrs. Coulter lifted Lyra up and gently lay her in the bed, then carefully got in beside her. 

Mrs. Coulter stroked Lyra’s hair and face soothingly. 

“Mama?” 

“Yes, Lyra.” 

“Are you going to send me away tomorrow?” 

Mrs. Coulter sucked in a breath. “No, dear.” 

“You said you was.” 

Mrs. Coulter tilted Lyra’s head so that frightened brown eyes met hers. The moonlight shone in on them from the half-open curtain. 

“Did you mean to break your arm, Lyra?” 

Lyra shook her head. “No, Mama.” 

“You see? It was an accident, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Coulter leaned down and kissed Lyra’s forehead. “I didn’t mean what I said. It was an accident.” 

A few fat tears slipped from Lyra’s eyes and Lyra sniffed. 

“Oh, my darling. How could you believe Mama would send you away? How ridiculous! I just want you to be better behaved. Can you do that, Lyra?” 

Lyra nodded. “Yes, Mama.” 

“Good. There’s my good little darling. Now sleep. You have a lot of healing to do and you need rest.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. Coulter kept Lyra in bed, to prevent her from running around and reinjuring herself. She used this as an opportunity to train Lyra to use cutlery. She spoon-fed her soups to start with, then cut up meat into little pieces and fed it to her with a fork. Lyra resisted, but she charmed her with soft-voiced praise and encouragement, the golden monkey stroking Pan softly. No one had ever treated Lyra as gently as Mrs. Coulter did, and it surprised her into compliance. 

Lyra stared at Mrs. Coulter with large eyes for so long after one of the feedings that she had to inquire about the child’s thoughts. 

“What is the matter, darling?” Mrs. Coulter prompted. 

“You like one of those fairies,” Lyra said, narrowing her eyes. “They charm all the bugs to leave and then the flowers die. One of the older girls told me—” 

“Lyra there’s no such thing as fairies.” 

Mrs. Coulter soon learned that Lyra had more tales to tell. 

“An older girl tried to drown me once,” Lyra said in the bath. “She pushed my head in a bucket, but I drank all the water before she could.” 

“Lyra, please don’t lie to me. Daughters don’t lie to their Mamas.” 

“I ain’t!” 

Mrs. Coulter sighed. “You didn’t.” 

“Exactly!” 

The golden monkey growled, but Lyra laughed, saving her and Pan from retribution as Mrs. Coulter was distracted by the bright sound. 

Mrs. Coulter brought Lyra ice cream, and Lyra made a face as she tried it. 

“It’s cold!” 

“It’s supposed to be, darling.” 

“Why would anyone eat something cold, _on purpose_.” 

“Well, people like it in the summertime, on hot days.” 

“It makes my teeth hurt.” 

Something occurred to Mrs. Coulter. “Lyra, open your mouth.” 

Lyra obeyed out of habit. 

Mrs. Coulter peered into her mouth, tilting Lyra’s head to see better. 

“Lyra, do you ever brush your teeth?” 

Lyra giggled. “Why would I do that?” 

“To prevent decay.” 

Lyra looked at her in confusion. 

“To keep them from falling out.” Mrs. Coulter wrung her hands and the golden monkey tugged at their dress, his agitation rising with hers. 

“Why? New ones’ll just grow.” 

“No, they won’t Lyra.” 

“Yes they will! They always do.” 

“Those are your first teeth, Lyra. You have two sets, after the first ones fall out, you don’t get more after the second ones come in.” 

Lyra folded her arms. “No. Like rats. Rat teeth always grow.” Pan became a rat and squeaked loudly to emphasize her point. 

“You’re not a rat,” Mrs. Coulter said, softening. She stroked Lyra’s cheek and hair. 

Lyra relaxed under the touch, seeming to back down from the fight as Pan turned into an ermine and crawled into her arms. 

“I’ll have a toothbrush made for you.” 

Mrs. Coulter had needed to reevaluate all of the ways in which Lyra was ignorant. She glanced at the melting ice cream and absentmindedly started to eat it. 

“Why do you like ice cream? Is it cause you’re rich?” 

“You’re rich too, Lyra.” 

“But I don’t like ice cream.” 

Mrs. Coulter sighed. “Well, you never have to eat it again, Lyra. Except maybe at parties, to be polite.” 

Lyra wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I’ll ever remember how to be polite.” 

“Of course you will, darling. It just takes practice.” 

“There’s too much to remember!” 

“Well, being around fine society should—” 

“As an orphan me and Pan ain’t never had to do nothing but chores, and shut up, and please and thank you—" 

“Really? I have never heard you say that Lyra.” The golden monkey said. 

“And you do the work fast, or you get whipped. But there’s no manners, and Lord Asriel says—” 

“What, Lyra?” Mrs. Coulter said sharply. 

Lyra’s mouth gaped. She had been around Mrs. Coulter long enough to be conditioned to the danger of that tone, or perhaps it was something deeper, more instinctual. Pan started shaking and crawled under the blankets, nuzzling into Lyra’s lap. 

“What did you say, Lyra?” The golden monkey’s hair stood on end and Mrs. Coulter gripped the back of his neck tightly, unaware of what she was doing. 

Lyra swallowed. “The boy in the kitchen...says there was a man named Lord Asriel...says he was my father. Says...says he went to lots of parties and wouldn’t let a dirty bastard like me into one.” 

“Well,” Mrs. Coulter said, trying to smile over her anger. The result was an unpleasant expression that had Lyra gripping the bedsheets tightly. “There is no Lord Asriel. It seems the staff enjoy stories as much as you do.” 

“But Mama...” Lyra’s voice was quiet, and she looked down and fidgeted. “Who is my father then?” 

“Your father?” Mrs. Coulter’s voice reached an uncomfortable octave. “Well he was...many things. I’ll tell you all about him someday. Maybe after your arm heals.” 

Lyra groaned, and might have even made the unwise choice to argue, but the room got colder then, and Lyra could just see the ghost of Lord Asriel, stepping out from the wall, pressing his finger to his lips. Lyra smiled at him. 

Mrs. Coulter looked over her shoulder sharply, but Lord Asriel stepped back and disappeared. 

Mrs. Coulter gave Lyra a suspicious stare, and Lyra tried her best innocent expression. 

“Mama, will the toothbrush hurt?” Lyra asked, afraid of it but also trying to distract Mrs. Coulter, aware that the powerful energy in the room was much more dangerous. 

It seemed to work. “No, darling. It will make you feel healthy.” 

The toothbrush had a heavy handle with patterns as intricate as Mrs. Coulter’s silverware. Lyra examined it skeptically. 

“I still don’t get why I have to brush my teeth like my hair.” 

“Trust me, darling. You’ll thank me when you’re older. Peasants grow up with brown, nasty teeth that they lose before they marry. Proper young ladies who clean their teeth have shiny, pretty smiles.” 

Lyra wasn’t convinced by Marisa’s compellingly dark narrative. 

“If I had nasty teeth I could scare away the bears,” Lyra said. 

Mrs. Coulter knelt down so she was at eye level with Lyra and took her face in her hands. “Bears are not scared by bad teeth, darling.” 

Lyra looked down, suddenly shy. “I know Mama.” 

“Good. Then do you promise to take good care of your teeth?” 

Lyra looked into the intense eyes of the woman who cared about every detail of her health that no one had ever noticed before. Pan curled around her feet and whimpered. 

Lyra nodded. 

Mrs. Coulter kissed her forehead. “I’ll show you how.” 

Lyra didn’t like the strange new feel of the bristles against her teeth and gums. She squirmed and whined, but didn’t put up any real fight. The golden monkey pet Pan, who was a hyperventilating mouse in his arms. 

What scared Lyra the most was not the toothbrush but Mrs. Coulter, and not because she was sometimes horribly mean but because she was often quite nice. Lyra wasn’t used to the scrutiny and self-awareness that came with having a caregiver. 

She was getting used to it though. Sharing her thoughts and actually having someone take interest. The consistent food and (mostly) nonviolent touch. Lyra didn’t know when Mrs. Coulter would send her back to the orphanage, but she dreaded the day when it would occur. 


	6. Chapter 6

The breaking and healing of Lyra’s arm was the beginning of her transformation into the young lady Mrs. Coulter would soon proudly claim as her heir. Although Lyra’s bone grew back strong, the care she had received had softened her spirit considerably. She was a feral dog turned docile by treats. 

Of course, some of her wild nature still remained, and Mrs. Coulter suspected it would persist, but at least she ate her food with utensils now. She seemed to take pride in it as well, constantly looking towards Mrs. Coulter for approval and blushing and brightening at the nods and warm smiles she received. 

Lyra had so much energy and Mrs. Coulter decided it was time to put it to a civilized use. So she started teaching Lyra horseback riding, something every young lady of her social status should know. Lyra was not a natural. 

While Mrs. Coulter manipulated her own horse with ease, Lyra let her fat brown pony graze the grass. 

“Lyra!” Mrs. Coulter scolded. 

Lyra felt the slow burning sting of the riding crop as it landed against her thigh. 

“Don’t let the horse eat while you’re riding him.” 

“Why?” Lyra said, rubbing her leg where her mother had hit her. “He ain’t hurting nothing.” 

“You have to keep the animal under your control, or it might do something dangerous.” 

“He ain’t doing nothing.” 

“It’s a slippery slope, my child. If you let him get away with grazing, what’s next? He could take off at a gallop and you break your neck.” 

Lyra looked at him doubtfully. “He’s too fat for that.” 

Another change in Lyra’s life was her developing friendship with the kitchen boy, Roger. When Lyra thought Mrs. Coulter wasn’t watching, she and Roger would sneak off into the forest to play. Mrs. Coulter allowed it only because to her knowledge, Lyra had never had a friend before. It was an important developmental milestone that life at the mansion had let her reach. Besides, Lyra’s social skills were so lacking that it was perhaps better that she wasn’t introduced to fine children yet. 

“Watch that one carefully, my darling.” Lord Asriel’s ghost said. “This house doesn’t need any more bastards.” 

“Lyra’s not at that age yet, old man.” Mrs. Coulter said. 

Lord Asriel’s ghost laughed. “That age comes quicker than the living can keep up with.” 

Lyra came back inside with dirt on her dress and Mrs. Coulter stood sternly at the curve of the stairs, so Lyra didn’t see her until she’d finished running up the first set. 

Lyra slowed, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. 

Mrs. Coulter folded her arms and the monkey growled. 

“Well?” 

“I-I fell.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” 

Mrs. Coulter gestured with her head to the staircase behind her. “Go change.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Lyra ducked her head, avoiding eye contact and giving Mrs. Coulter a wide birth as she scurried past. 

Lyra had started calling her ‘ma’am’ when she was trying to get out of trouble, no doubt something she had picked up from the servants. What Lyra didn’t seem to realize was the power the former orphan had over Mrs. Coulter’s heart when she called her “Mama” with her big sad eyes. 

Mrs. Coulter was starting to teach Lyra to read, and with this focus on language she was also instructing her in the proper way to speak. Lyra was a slow learner, and always complained of headaches, so most of her lessons consisted of Mrs. Coulter correcting her verbal flaws. 

“I ain’t wanna do this no more!” Lyra whined. 

“You don’t want to read anymore?” 

“Yeah!” 

“Lyra,” Mrs. Coulter said, setting the book aside, “it’s fine if you speak like that when you’re running around with servants, but when you’re around proper people you have to speak properly.” 

Lyra squirmed free of Mrs. Coulter’s embrace and got out of the bed. 

“I’m never gonna learn it!” Pan flew above Lyra’s head as a crow letting out a caw in agreement. “I’m a bastard, and an orphan, and a peasant and I ain’t gonna learn nothing!” Lyra stomped her foot. 

It was a testament to Mrs. Coulter’s boundless affection for the child that she didn’t throttle her then. 

Instead she guided Lyra to the full-length mirror. 

“What do you see?” 

Lyra pouted and refused to look, arms folded and staring at the ground. Pan became a blind mole beside her. 

Mrs. Coulter stroked her hair and face. “I see a brave little girl who’s had to overcome so much. I see someone clever, whose daemon has learned so many new forms since she’s came here. I see my daughter, who is so much like me.” 

Lyra looked up at the mirror then, face brightening with awe. She turned to face Mrs. Coulter. “I’m like you...” she said in a small voice. 

Mrs. Coulter knelt down so she was at eye level with Lyra. “Yes darling, so much.” She stroked Lyra’s face and kissed her forehead. 

Pan became a wolverine at Lyra’s side, and Mrs. Coulter laughed, welcoming yet another new form. She reached down to stroke the daemon’s head, but when she touched the daemon girl and soul jumped back. Mrs. Coulter’s heart hurt at the reaction and the golden monkey whimpered. 

Lyra ran from the room. 

The golden monkey climbed into Marisa’s arms and she cuddled him to her chest for a while. 

Mrs. Coulter found Lyra in Madame Delamare’s old room—a place that had grown dusty as she almost never let anyone inside. An open window answered Mrs. Coulter’s question as to how Lyra got in. She sighed and tried to stop picturing the girl moving along the building’s wall, one misstep away from a deadly fall. 

Lyra sat on the floor beside the bed, hugging her knees and pressing her head against the mattress. Pan crawled along her arms as a mouse. 

Mrs. Coulter sat beside her, and Lyra gasped and held her breath. 

“Lyra darling, tell me what’s wrong.” Mrs. Coulter deliberately left a foot of space between them, holding the golden monkey back with one arm to prevent him from getting closer. 

Lyra let out a sigh. “Nothing.” 

“Then why are you hiding in my mother’s dusty old room?” 

Lyra looked at her then, head jerking towards her in surprise. 

Mrs. Coulter smiled. “Yes, Lyra. This was hers. As was the mansion. She was not always a kind woman. The relationship I had with her was complicated. You see,” Mrs. Coulter leaned closer, conspiratorially “she used to hurt my brother’s daemon,” she whispered. 

Lyra looked back at her knees then, eyes moving rapidly as she thought this over. 

“Did she tried to take her away?” 

“What?” Mrs. Coulter played with Lyra’s hair absentmindedly, tucking it behind her ears. 

“Your brother’s daemon...did she...try to take her?” 

“No...” Mrs. Coulter was confused and concerned. 

Lyra sighed. “An older girl did. _Alice.”_ Lyra said her name in a hiss and Pan became a snake. “If she got your daemon, she’d hurt it, and she’d try to take it. Like cutting, so you’d never see it again.” 

Mrs. Coulter shivered. She herself had run the program that perfected the intercision process, but it was strange to hear the colloquial term for it on her daughter’s lips. She hadn’t thought about the project in years. It had been small but successful, and the procedure was mainly used on violent offender’s children, or the children of heretics. 

“No one’s ever going to cut you, Lyra.” Mrs. Coulter’s voice was louder than normal, and she spoke instinctively. 

“Matron said she would, ‘cause I was one of the devil children. But she never did, ‘cause she always try to be scarier than she is. Like you.” 

Mrs. Coulter fixed her with a mock serious look. “Oh, Lyra. I am much scarier than I appear to be.” The golden monkey let out a snarl. 

Lyra suddenly lunged towards her and wrapped her arms around her waist tightly, crying into her dress. Mrs. Coulter jumped, the child’s movement so quick it initially felt like an attack. She slowly raised her arms and rubbed the child’s back. 

Lyra pulled away, sniffling. “Y-you you’re scary. But only ‘cause you’re gonna send me back. To the orphanage.” 

Mrs. Coulter slapped her across the face. It was a completely instinctive motion. She stroked the reddened skin with her thumb. 

“Don’t ever say that Lyra,” her voice was soft, but her heart still pounded hard with emotion, just underneath the surface. 

Mrs. Coulter pulled the child close again and held her tightly. 


	7. Chapter 7

Mrs. Coulter curled Lyra’s hair into tight ringlets so she could get used to the style, and had her practice wearing fancier, heavier dresses. She had tea with Lyra and tried to teach her all about the etiquette. Lyra was trying, but failing, and she often spilled a pastry or tea down her dress. Pan would change forms rapidly at her side, giving away her agitation no matter how still and calm Lyra could force herself to appear. 

Mrs. Coulter would have to give up introducing Lyra at her next party, as there was no way the clumsy child would be ready in time. She wasn’t sure what to do with her while the party was going on, as she felt Lyra was becoming more aware, and would be offended if she tried to hide her. 

It was actually the kitchen boy who saved the day, as Lyra asked if she could work in the kitchen with Roger during the party. Mrs. Coulter didn’t like the idea, of course, but it was the best way to keep her occupied. 

She instructed the servants to keep a close eye on Lyra, as she didn’t want any more injuries. She would have Lyra and Roger doing dishes, or fixing frosting on pastries, but nowhere near anything hot, as Lyra would likely get burn wounds. Of course she didn’t tell Lyra this, and instead had the head cook order them around. Apparently, Lyra and Roger were a nuisance in the kitchen when they were together, and laughed too much, but Mrs. Coulter paid her staff well enough to put up with them. 

The party went well, and no screaming dirt-covered bastard made an appearance among the guests. But shortly afterwards three officials from the Magisterium visited Madame Delamare’s former mansion. 

“Father MacPhail, what a lovely surprise.” 

Mrs. Coulter didn’t like the skeptical way he looked around her house, eyes moving over the details as though he were searching for something. 

Mrs. Coulter had the servants bring them tea, though Father MacPhail refused any food or drink. Lord Boreal sipped the fine tea out of the delicate china, eyes fixed on her in an expression that was impossible to read. Fra Pavel fiddled with his hands, taking a sip of his drink and then coughing. 

“It has come to the Magisterium’s attention,” Father MacPhail said, “that a man has not been head of this house for an entire generation.” 

Mrs. Coulter smiled, gripping the golden monkey’s fur tightly under the table and doing her best to keep down her rising disgust. “My mother’s late husband sadly passed on,” she kept her voice light. “This house only fell into my care very recently—” 

“But you have no heir,” Fra Pavel interrupted. “No son that the house could fall to.” 

“Well, I’m not planning on falling anytime soon, gentleman.” 

“The fact is, the Magisterium is concerned that—when you pass, may it be long from now—your house will not fall to a man. If this property were to fall to another woman, the Magisterium would have to look into the ethics of the household.” 

Mrs. Coulter’s breathing was picking up and she made every effort to slow it. “Do you expect me to just toss my husband from my mind? I am a widow! The Authority has tasked me with the process of grieving—” 

“Be that as it may,” Father MacPhail dared to interrupt her performance, “it seems the Authority has given you a new task. Is your daughter, Lyra, not living here with you now?” 

Mrs. Coulter wanted to sow his mouth shut for speaking her name. 

“The ethics of a household with a child must be held to a higher standard than anything else. Especially such a fine household as this one. The Authority respects the _grieving_ ” he said the word with a sneer, “that you have done, but now He asks you to move on. For the sake of the child.” 

And so Mrs. Coulter was married to Lord Boreal by the time the first snow had started to fall. 


	8. Chapter 8

Mrs. Coulter enjoyed Lord Boreal’s company. He was composed, smoothly able to hide all emotion at social gatherings, and he had a clever eye for cruelty that made him a fantastic partner to joke with. 

Lyra didn’t like him, and was often openly hostile or even downright bratty towards him. 

“Lyra, he is the man of this household and you must respect him.” 

“He’s not! Lord Asriel is!” 

The golden monkey pounced on Pan, racking his back claws down the weasel’s side and leg. 

Lyra cried out and doubled over in pain. 

Mrs. Coulter cupped her cheek. “You’re not to speak that name ever again,” she whispered sweetly. “Am I understood?” 

“Yes, Mama.” Tears glistened in Lyra’s eyes. 

The golden monkey let Pan go. 

Lyra wrapped her arms around Marisa in one of her fast, attack-like hugs. 

“You like him better than me!” Lyra cried. 

“What utter nonsense!” 

Mrs. Coulter scooped Lyra into her arms and Lyra looked suddenly embarrassed, playing with the fabric of her mother’s dress. Mrs. Coulter wiped at Lyra’s face with a handkerchief. 

“Lyra,” Mrs. Coulter said softly, “the relationship a woman has with her husband is very different from that which she has with her child. It is all mandated by the Authority. There is no hierarchy. But if there were,” Mrs. Coulter said conspiratorially, “I would love you much much more.” 

“So if Boreal—” 

“Lord Boreal, Lyra.” 

“If he and me was on a boat, and and you could only save one, who would you kill?” 

Mrs. Coulter frowned and set Lyra back on her feet. “No one is going on a boat or killing anyone.” 

Lyra stared at the floor and whispered “Roger says if you really love someone, if you’re on a boat you’ll choose—” 

Mrs. Coulter took Lyra’s ear and pinched hard. 

Lyra gasped and looked up to meet her eyes. 

“I don’t want to hear what that kitchen boy has to say on serious matters ever again.” 

“Yes, Mama,” Lyra said, fresh tears trickling from her eyes. 

The guilt came after the lovemaking, while Mrs. Coulter sat naked at her desk, staring out the window, and Lord Boreal snored softly. 

“Do you hate me,” Mrs. Coulter said softly. 

Lord Asriel’s ghost chuckled. “Of course not.” 

“B-but it’s just like before. With me married and you...” 

“Dead?” 

Marisa glared at him. 

“My love, it is nothing like before. If it was, I would take you into my arms and make everything better. But I have no arms. I am a dead man, and I burn with jealousy to see you with a husband who can give you what I cannot—though to be honest, no one can give it to you quite so elegantly as I can.” 

Marisa laughed through tears. 

“I want you to be happy my love. I may be dead, but you are not. If Boreal can entertain you, give you some pleasure well...then it’s what I want for you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Marisa whispered. 

“Never be sorry, dearest.” 


	9. Chapter 9

In the coldness of winter, Lyra fell ill. 

Mrs. Coulter stayed by her side. 

“Spiteful, wicked child. How dare you try to leave your mother. You are not allowed to leave me, do you hear?” 

The golden monkey dug his claws into Pan’s sleeping form. Lyra barely felt it. She was too weak to cry, even if she had. 

“Mama...?” Lyra whispered. 

“Oh, I’m right here, darling. My angel.” She peppered Lyra’s hot face with kisses. 

The room got colder then and Lyra sat up, eyes wide and haunted. Pan remained unconscious. 

“Lord Asriel be gone!” Mrs. Coulter shouted. 

“Marisa my love, and Lyra, my child.” Lord Asriel’s form flickered and then solidified as he moved towards them. 

Mrs. Coulter was sobbing. 

“I have a message. I have learned why Lyra is ill, and I know how to fix it.” 

“Stop, stop it, Asriel.” 

“The harpies explained that my presence of death, has cursed the house. If Lyra is to get better, I must never return.” 

“Wicked words from a wicked man.” 

“Marisa, I love you more than life itself. Lyra my daughter, do not break your mother’s heart.” 

“Father...” Lyra’s hoarse whisper lasted just as long as Asriel’s ghost did, before he disappeared. 

Mrs. Coulter held onto Lyra and sobbed into the child’s small chest. “Oh, wicked child, from a wicked, wicked man.” 

When Lyra grew older, she could never be certain if her father, Lord Asriel, had ever really been there. Pan was certain about it. Sometimes she felt guilty for her doubt. 

At fourteen, Lyra had grown into the charming young lady that Mrs. Coulter was proud to claim as her own. She had just as much energy, but she put it to good use laughing in conversation or riding her new horse (a young skinny one who loved to gallop). Mrs. Coulter also knew that she often ran around the woods with Roger. Occasionally she thought about arranging an accident to dispose of the low-class stain on her daughter’s social circle. But it turned out she didn’t have to. 

The solution arrived with her spring party. A young man of respectably high status caught Lyra’s attention. He should have stood out, as he had no daemon. His father was the guest of honor, commanding attention loudly with a crowd gathered around him, in a way that was reminiscent of Lord Asriel. But the boy stayed at the edge of the room, people paid him no more attention than a servant. 

Except Lyra. As soon as she saw him she immediately began the process of extracting herself from a group of high-class boys. 

“You’re the one from the other world,” Lyra said. 

Will smiled. 

“What are you doing hiding? I bet you have lots of stories to tell! Most of us here are common bores, but you’re not.” 

“I don’t like parties,” Will said. 

“Then let’s be free of it. Take me to your world.” 

“I can’t, the Magisterium regulates that too strictly.” 

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you follow the rules.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Lyra stared out the window of the train, glad that she had been able to get her own compartment. It was a small comfort, in a large world of hurt. 

Mrs. Coulter was pregnant, and so she had sent Lyra away. They were praying for a boy, a non-bastard to take on the mansion when Mrs. Coulter and Lord Boreal died. 

“Mama you can't.” 

“The Authority wills it.” 

“You promised you wouldn’t send me away.” 

“Lyra, a boarding school is not an orphanage, and you are far too old for such ridiculous thoughts.” 

Lyra refused to speak to her after that, no matter how much the golden monkey tugged on Pan or Mrs. Coulter slapped her. She regretted it now, as she watched the landscape slide on by. She would probably never see Madame Delamare’s mansion or her mother again. 

She was about to cry, when the compartment door slid open. 

“Will! What are you doing here?” 

Will grinned. “I came to keep you company of course.” 

“You didn’t tell me you was.” 

“I didn’t know.” 

Lyra took in Will’s bruised eye. 

“What happened?” 

Will sighed. “My father said it wasn’t proper for a boy to be taking care of his own mother. But she doesn’t trust the servants you know, she only trusts me, so of course I’m not going to abandon her. I told him it wasn’t proper for a husband not to be there for his own wife.” Will gestured to his face. “It was worth it, but he sent me away anyway. I hate him. You’re lucky Lyra. I wish my father was dead like yours.” 

“Don’t say that,” Pan said. 

“Sorry,” Will said. “Maybe not all fathers are bad.” 

Lyra thought that over. She had never viewed her own father as violent, but then again, he had always been a ghost. He could never touch her or her mother. She wondered if he would have been like Will’s father, if he was alive. 

“I miss my father,” Lyra said, tears brimming in her eyes now. “I think he’s the only parent I have left who still loves me, and he’s dead!” 

“Your mother loves you, Lyra.” 

“No,” Lyra shook her head. “Not anymore. She’s got a real child coming and she doesn’t want a bastard in the way of her perfect new family.” 

“Maybe that’s not how she really feels,” Will said thoughtfully. “The Magisterium has really strict rules about illegitimate children, and she can’t just break them.” 

Lyra scowled. She hated it when people used unnecessarily large words. ‘Bastard’ was just as good as ‘illegitimate’ in her eyes. 

“I hate school,” Lyra continued. “They’ll just tell us a whole lot of boring nonsense. I won’t remember any of it and get whipped. And there’s no horses, no forest, no Roger.” 

“Well, maybe we don’t have to go.” 

“Yes, let’s jump off the train now,” Lyra said sardonically. 

Will grinned then, and pulled a knife out of his backpack. 

“Will, you didn’t!” Lyra gasped. 

The knife glinted as Will twisted it in his hand. 

“The Magisterium will skin you alive,” Lyra said. 

“Only if they find out.” 

Lyra pulled out her own artifact, which seemed lame in comparison. She had heard Boreal and Mrs. Coulter talking about it. It was supposed to know everything, and she had hoped she could use it to cheat on exams. 

“See? We’re like twins,” Lyra said. “We better make sure the Magisterium doesn’t find either of us.” 

“We can go anywhere you want to.” 

“I want to find my father,” Lyra said. “And to do that, we’ll have to go to the world of the dead.” 

Will cut a line, and the two jumped into the floor, and disappeared from the train. 


	11. Chapter 11

The world of the dead was colder than anything Lyra had ever experienced before. It reminded her of the time when she had fell into the frozen pond when she had tried to ice skate on it with Roger. There was no mother to punish her or comfort her now, though she soon found her father. She didn’t recognize him at first. His ghost was less distinguished when it was surrounded by so many others. 

“My child,” He got on his knees and held her shoulders. “How you have grown. And you’re here? But you’re not...” 

“No, we’re alive.” Lyra fell into his arms and hugged him tightly, for the first time. 

“We’re here to free you,” Will said. 

“We’re here to bring you back,” Lyra countered. “Oh, Lord Asriel, I need you! Mama’s gone, or, she sent me away. She’s moved on from us, from our family and found a new one.” 

“My dear child, when I leave this world, I will not be able to return to yours. I have lived so long, and my time is over now.” 

“No! I can’t lose both my parents.” 

“Lyra, you don’t need your parents anymore.” 

Tears were frozen on Lyra’s cheeks. “I don’t want to be alone again.” 

“You are not,” Lord Asriel nodded at Will. “He will take care of you now.” 

Will returned the nod. “I promise I will, sir.” 

Lord Asriel let Lyra go. Will wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. 

“It’s time,” Lord Asriel said. 

Will cut a hole in the air. 

When Lyra and Will returned to school, they received a sharp scolding from the Headmaster and beatings for being late. They went to bed without any food. Will kept the knife, and Lyra kept the alethiometer, though the newspapers reported the Magisterium was searching for the knife. 

Lyra and Will would visit other worlds between classes, or play hooky and sneak away. 

Lyra didn’t see her mother again for four years, though she was sent photographs of her growing younger half-brother, Billy. When she was invited back to Madame Delamare’s former manor it was as a young adult about to embark on marriage. 

A servant led Lyra up the stairs, where she found her mother in an art studio, painting on a large canvas. It took Lyra a moment to recognize the room. It was Madame Delamare’s old chamber, and it looked much longer without the bed, almost like a hallway. 

Lyra stood, waiting. 

Mrs. Coulter looked up. “Ah, Lyra. How wonderful of you to visit.” 

Lyra gave a small curtsy. “Thank you for the invitation ma’am. You have a wonderful home.” 

Mrs. Coulter laughed. A full, genuine laugh that would be too obscene for a lady to display in public. 

Lyra was startled, as she had never heard the woman emit quite this noise before. 

“How lovely,” Mrs. Coulter’s voice was soft and sweet. “You’ve grown up quite nicely.” 

Lyra fiddled with her hands. 

Pan crept forward then, and Mrs. Coulter’s eyes lit up when they settled on him. “I see your daemon has settled as a weasel!” 

Lyra blushed. 

“You are full of surprises, my child.” 

Lyra felt very childish then. She had intended to be cold and distant, a proper lady visiting an acquaintance she despised, but Mrs. Coulter knew how to manipulate too well, and of course she regressed. 

“Mama?” 

“Yes, my darling.” 

Some younger part of Lyra’s brain was comforted by this woman’s tone of voice. “Do you love Billy more than me?” 

“There are no hierarches, remember.” 

“But if there _were_ hierarches.” 

“If there were hierarches...I would love you more than all the world.” 


End file.
